You fondle my trigger, then you blame my gun

PRESS PLAY:

Double down in vegas, and see what happens.  You won’t have to wait long.
Sip your complementary watered-down house scotch on the rocks.
Rethink your move despite already laying down your hand.
Blame the dealer when your chips are swept away.
Or just blame me
because I saw your cards. 

~jrb 


“Limp”, Fiona Apple
You wanna make me sick;
You wanna lick my wounds,
Don’t you, baby?
You want the badge of honor when you save my hide
But you’re the one in the way
Of the day of doom, baby
If you need my shame to reclaim your pride
And when I think of it, my fingers turn to fists
I never did anything to you, man
But no matter what I try
You’ll beat me with your bitter lies
So call me crazy, hold me down
Make me cry; got off now, baby-
It wont be long till you’ll be
Lying limp in your own hand
You feed the beast I have within me
You wave the red flag, baby you make it run run run
Standing on the sidelines, waving and grinning
You fondle my trigger, then you blame my gun
And when I think of it, my fingers turn to fists
I never did anything to you, man
But no matter what I try
You’ll beat me with your bitter lies
So call me crazy, hold me down
Make me cry; get off now, baby-
It wont be long till you’ll be
Lying limp in your own hand
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